


The Ride to Trenwith/ The Ride to Nampara

by BetweenScenes



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9399974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenScenes/pseuds/BetweenScenes
Summary: A Two-Chapter Exploration:  "The Ride to Trenwith" and "The Ride to Nampara."After receiving Elizabeth's letter sharing the news of her engagement to George, Ross races to confront her.  These are the thoughts and memories that run through his mind on "The Ride to Trenwith."Then, after Ross's night at Trenwith, a description of Ross's thoughts on the return journey home in "The Ride to Nampara."





	1. The Ride to Trenwith

     Her face was before him, as he spurred Darkie on. Her face, and the maddening smirk on Warleggan's.  Her face, her widening smile, her hair blowing in the gusts above Hendrawna. Her face at the table at Trenwith, just beyond Francis's, at his return.

     He had been overjoyed to see her there that day so long ago. So stunned at her welcome presence at the table, especially after the sad news of his father's death. Verity's embrace had warmed him; Francis' cheerful smile, Aunt Agatha's wit, and even Uncle Charles's gruff greeting had brought him comfort and joy. He had known the side trip to Trenwith would fill his heart. But this surpassed his hopes--his head had buzzed from the stimulus of seeing her again. He had moved quickly to her chair, and she looked up at him, with those eyes, that familiar curved cheek, that sweet face. This Elizabeth was so present, so real, not the imagined siren, temptress, virgin of his dreams these past three years. 

      _I must speak to you, Ross—”_

_"Yes, of course," Ross had responded, gently reaching down and caressing her shoulder.  Why did Uncle Charles look at him thus?_

_“Why,” said Aunt Agatha, “Lord damn me if it isn’t Ross! Come here, boy! I thought you was gone to make one of the blest above.” Reluctantly Ross had walked away from Elizabeth, down the table to greet his great-aunt. Ross kissed Aunt Agatha’s whiskery cheek. Smilingly he said, “I’m glad to see, Aunt, that you’re still one of the blest below.”_

     And Ross remembered that moment, that heart-breaking, jaw-dropping moment, when it finally registered that it was Elizabeth they spoke of--Elizabeth who was affianced to Francis. 

_He had gone away to the colonies eager for fresh experience and sure of the one circumstance of his return that would really matter. No doubt was in his own mind, and he had looked for none in hers._

      History came back in snippets and scenes as the wind whipped through his hair and Darkie's muscles strained beneath him, dashing along the rutted dirt road: The wedding, when he had stood in the audience at the church _Elizabeth and he_ should have been married in; that awkward conversation in the sitting room with  _his love_ , married to another. **_Friends?_**  Had she really deluded herself that they could ever be just _friends_?  

     He recalled the day he had come to see Uncle Charles, when he had confronted her. When he had stepped close to her and confessed: _"From the moment I set eyes on you, no one else existed. When I was away, all I could think about was coming back to you. Did we **really** not mean those things we said? That day I left, was there **really** nothing between us?  Is there **really** nothing between us now?"_ He had glanced at her full lips, begging to be kissed. It was all he could do to restrain himself. 

_Why do you ask me things I can't answer?" She had asked, seemingly near tears._

_"Why can't you answer?  Why can't you answer?" He had begged._

_"There's nothing for you here, Ross. I love Francis.  You must forget me and make your life elsewhere."_ She lifted her chin stubbornly.  She wouldn't meet his eyes. 

_"You may rely upon it," Ross had answered._

     Particularly poignant was his memory of the Trevaunance's party, of watching Demelza glowingly flirt with other men, while Elizabeth finally confessed her error.  He had seen in her eyes and finally heard in her words that her favor for him had been and was still there. 

     Along with the memories of that which  ** _had_** happened were blended that which had  ** _not_**. Those foolish dreams, all those months and years in the colonies, of her face, her form, their future. A wedding, a marriage bed, children. 

     And Francis--always Francis, the usurper, in his place. Standing next to her at the altar, gazing down protectively at her as she cradled Geoffrey Charles in her arms, the fruit of their intimacy. Francis's hand on Elizabeth's back, always leading her away from him.

     But his quarrel with Francis was long past--that resentment had been buried with his fair-haired cousin in the Sawle churchyard. 

     But  ** _George Warleggan_**? How  ** _could_**  she?  He had risked Demelza's frowns, bitter questions and silence to stop in at Trenwith so many times since Francis's death, just so Elizabeth had the support of a man. And what did her letter say?   _"I seem to need the strength and protection that only a man can give."_

     And _**what** _ man had she chosen? George Warleggan? _Truly?_ When Ross had endangered Jeremy and Demelza's future to buy those worthless shares in Wheal Grace, just so Elizabeth could be freed from dependence on George? Wheal Grace, which had just claimed the life of Ted Carkeek! Wheal Grace, which had just consumed the last of his and Henshaw's money!

     He had purchased that stock so Elizabeth could be free.  When he'd finally confessed the sale and gift to Demelza, just days earlier, he had justified the purchase, assuring her that this settled a debt; that he was _**certain** _ Elizabeth would never entertain George as anything more than a friend. 

     For a moment, his fury stilled. Demelza.  Familiar, loving, passionate, simple, complicated, critical, disappointed, defiant, hopeful Demelza. Why would she not want him to confront Elizabeth?  Surely she found the match as repulsive as he.  George Warleggan and Elizabeth?  Impossible!  That young, laughing, sweet face? It filled his mind, her face.

     Her face, and George's face, and the four-poster bed with red velvet curtains. 

 

     His heart pounded in unison with the beat of Darkie's hooves, as they thundered through the gates of Trenwith.

 


	2. The Ride to Nampara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to "The Ride to Trenwith," composed at the request of AngelBells. :) Ross's thoughts and memories as he rides back home to Nampara. At the end of 2 x 8.

     With one last backward glance at the glassy windows of Trenwith, Ross turned Darkie towards home. He felt nauseated. 

     The tangle of curls, the green dressing gown, the white nightrail. Her porcelain skin under his hand, her body rising to him. She had defied him, denied her own foolishness, raised her chin to him, lied outright. What had she said? "I love him to distraction, and will marry him next month."

     Darkie seemed to sense his owner's reluctance above him, and slowed his pace. Ross removed one hand from the reins, wiping his palm across his eyes and the stubble on his cheek. He had thought to wipe away these memories, but instead there it was. Rose water, a hint of vanilla, and an earthier, muskier smell: Elizabeth on his fingers, and shame and self-disgust in his heart. 

     Last night Demelza hadn't even intruded into his thoughts. Being in that house with Elizabeth, that bedroom? It was only her on his mind.  Nothing else, save his utter hatred for George Warleggan, had made it through the fog of anger and unquenched desire. 

     But this morning, he was headed towards home. He felt like a convicted criminal walking to the gallows. She had been right. Of course she had been right, when she stood in his path and told him not to go. How did she sense that nothing good could have come of confronting Elizabeth in the heat of anger? He had simply been determined to address it immediately. Elizabeth must _know_ how intensely disturbing her choice was to him. This thing _must be stopped_. And how could it have been stopped if he hadn't . . ? 

     Good God, what a fool he was. He had nearly been out of his mind with grief over the rockfall and Ted's death last night. He _should know_ himself--he was always impulsive when life dealt him a blow.  It was when he felt sickened at losing Elizabeth that he'd visited Margaret so many years ago. It was when he was heartsick over Jim being sent to prison that he had slept with Demelza. Emotional desperation led to sexual compulsion. Whenever he was destroyed as a man, that basest of needs remained. 

     But no, it hadn't been the same with Demelza. He hadn't been a crazed, bereft animal like he was with Margaret, like he was last night. Surely, he had been upset about Jim. Yes, he had been roused by discouragement and drink and that dress. That dress.  But he had pulled himself away from her, sent her and himself to bed. He had shown restraint, no matter the desire that rose when he'd crushed his lips against hers. Vividly he could still see that tangle of red hair as he left her, the teary wide sea-green eyes. 

     And after retiring to his bedroom, before Demelza had appeared, Ross had questioned his own self-control.  Was he such a monk, such a prude that he could not take what was on offer?  It _was_ only right that his obligation to her father gave him pause.  But it had been " _no blind seeking after sensation in order to drown a hurt, as it had been on the night of the ball_."  Instead he had realized that his desire for her had grown along with their friendship. 

     That night, Ross remembered, he had realized that " _she was of age enough to know her own mind and sense enough to read his before he knew it himself_."  He smiled ruefully and shook his head. Since the beginning, even when she was barely more than a child, Demelza had _known_ him. Last night had been no different. Why had he not listened to her?

     Darkie gingerly picked his way along the rocky path. The faint twinge of yellow on the horizon hinted of the day to come. 

     It was here, on this hillside, that they had strolled arm-in-arm back from helping with the pilchards, connected by the joy of working together, touching each other at each step. She had walked a step behind him on the narrow, bumpy path, but was completely his equal in wit, responding to his teasing question of whether she liked him with, "I could learn to."  He had stopped to kiss her, that irresistible, teasing mouth, that hair in the breeze. He had barely been able to wait to get her home to undo the ties on the corset that bound her willowy frame. 

     Ties.  That night so long ago, when she had come to him for help with her dress, with the hair at the nape of her neck wisping in response his breath, he had let his desire free.  Undoing the ties on her dress, he had again seen the faint scars from her father beating her. He had brushed his fingers over the raised pink marks in a silent promise. He had _kept_ that promise; he had never raised a hand to her. 

     Darkie's ears swiveled in response as the thought of those scars made Ross groan audibly. This choice of his would leave scars.  Scars that were less visible, but just as deep. Ross brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. Fool. 

     Through the haze Ross realized it was here that he told her she could no longer be his servant. He had decided before he'd seen her that morning that he could not do without her in his life. No, he had not loved her like he loved Elizabeth. But she anticipated his needs, provided warm companionship and hope and humor. She wasn't educated, but she was instinctive. And encouraging. He had known that he could be himself with her. 

     Darkie stumbled, and the motion reminded Ross of riding in the cart with Demelza, their possessions piled high behind them on the way to Truro. They had nearly emptied their home and barn just to pay the interest on that stupid loan--furniture, animals, carpets, clothing, jewels. Demelza had set her jaw in determination and rode alongside him past the gawking eyes.  He had rarely been prouder of her, nor so ashamed of himself as a man, seeing her haggling with the shop owners for the best price. He could not imagine Elizabeth ever humbling herself, ever doing anything of the kind. 

 _Elizabeth_. Last night seemed a dream--or a nightmare. He remembered her body under his hands, but could barely relish the thoughts. What was he going to say?  He’d been like a man possessed.

     The wind howled up the cliffs, and it was as if Ross could hear faint whispers of song in the wind. "There was an old woman. . . I'da pluck a fair rose for my love." Demelza danced around him in his mind til he was dizzy, swirls of sickness and Julia and the two of them tangled in their sheets, of laughter and meat pies and Cornish wrestling and flowers in pots, of silk stockings and little ribbons in the wind, of a blue dress and red, wild hair. 

     He could barely see through the tears in his eyes, but he was close now. Nampara loomed shadowy against the horizon. All was gray, save for one light, a candle in their bedroom window. 

     Ross swung his leg over Darkie's back and slid off the saddle, clutching his mouth. He bent over the weeds at the side of the path, retched violently, and vomited. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from Poldark Book 1: Ross Poldark by Winston Graham


End file.
